


Coming For to Carry Me Home

by tenshinokorin



Series: Running Down a Dream - (Main Story & B-sides) [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Sexual Assault, References to Suicide, World of Ruin, content warning, no unsolicited concrit please, running down a dream series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 14:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10810728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenshinokorin/pseuds/tenshinokorin
Summary: Nobody knows where Prompto is. (Takes place between Chapters 5&6 ofTyrants & Kings.)





	Coming For to Carry Me Home

(M.E. 757) 

 

For once, Ignis heard it first. While his other senses had sharpened to uncanny levels since the loss of his vision, it was still rare for him to get the jump on his chocobo. But Amarant had taken a bad blow to the head from a starving coeurl a day earlier, and as such the chocobo was not on full alert.

Ignis' lance-work from Amarant's back had been less a matter of revenge than of mercy. The coeurl was weak, and so desperate for food that it had risked a full-on frontal assault on the bird and her rider. Most of the normal beasts of the Nebulawood were slowly starving as the loss of sunlight killed off the plants that had fed the grazing animals they relied on for prey. Daemons encroached on their territory and picked off the weakest--not for food, but out of pure malice. It was the same everywhere. Ignis had not forgotten the times he and his friends had nearly been a coeurl's dinner themselves, but nevertheless, he felt a twinge of pity as he dispatched it. It had only been trying to survive, as they all were. 

Amarant would recover, of that Ignis had no doubt, though he would need to take her to Wiz in Lestallum for a proper examination once she was well enough to ride. The coeurl had raked its claws over her face, and Ignis suspected she had injured her eye. He would need sight himself to check that, however. For now though, the great crimson bird was drowsing beside the campfire, and Ignis, leaning against her warm flank, was listening to the crackling fire and the forest beyond. 

It was quieter than he remembered. Though night-loving creatures like bats had thrived in the year since the sun vanished, they added very little to the ambient noise of the Nebulawood. The wind rattled in the faded leaves, and now and again the cry of an owl would thread through the branches. In the distance Ignis could hear the unmistakable sound of a materializing daemon--a noise Prompto had once described as "opening the rotten, creaky-ass door to a serial killer's basement." 

The memory still made Ignis smile. But only a little. He did not know where Prompto was. Nobody seemed to, though rumors of his exploits had reached Lestallum and were eagerly shared. The dangerous hunts he undertook alone, his fearlessness even in the face of certain death, this or that bounty he had gunned down unflinching. The hunters spoke admiringly of him; his friends worried. If there was one thing Prompto Argentum was not, it was fearless. 

_Mad, perhaps_ , Ignis had said, when he'd first heard about it. _Suicidal,_ Gladio had said. And then they'd said nothing else, both knowing neither one of them was wrong. Meanwhile, Prompto continued to ignore his texts, expand his reputation, and to tempt the Astrals with his life. It had been weeks since the last word of him from Hammerhead. 

_Kings of the Wall watch over him,_ Ignis thought, staring into the bright light of the fire and seeing only a filmy, gray ghost flickering through his personal eternal darkness. _Etro have mercy, and stay your gentle hand._ He had once scoffed at prayer as the last resort of the deluded, but that was before he had lost Noct to the machinations of the heavens. For all he had given the gods (his family, his home, his sight, and two kings) Ignis thought it not unseemly to request something in return. Surely, to the Six, Prompto was a small thing to ask for.

 _Please_. 

That was when Ignis heard it. Far off, but unmistakable: a chocobo's cry. Underneath him, Amarant did not stir, but Ignis listened intently to discern the bird's direction and destination. Wiz had evacuated all of his flock to Lestallum, but many domestic birds had fled their pens during the fall, or been left to wander when their riders were slain--or turned into daemons. Often the stray birds went back to the old Chocobo Post and waited patiently there for some instruction, or a gentle hand to rub them down. They would find nothing but death. 

Ignis expected the bird's calls to fade off as it headed toward the old stables, but the next one was closer. Ignis, having spent many days alone with his chocobo, knew some of their basic language by now. This one was alerting any nearby flock to its presence, hoping for safety in numbers. Chocobos were herd animals in the wild, and this one was in distress. Wounded, perhaps. Frightened, certainly. _Ke-weh!_ was the call it sent out, less than a mile off, and getting closer. _Is anyone out there?_

Amarant lifted her heavy head, bumped her beak under Ignis' hand, and made a garrulous collection of curious clicks and kwehs as though asking Ignis, sleepily, if he had heard that, too. But on the next call, surely not more than a quarter of a mile distant, Amarant clambered to her feet. She brushed past Ignis and paced around the edge of the haven like an agitated goose-down sofa, chirping excitedly into the darkness. A short kweh, then a sharp one, a puff of air-- _Yes I'm here_ \--and then a blurred flurry of calls that made Ignis' throat constrict in comprehension. He knew that call. It was no strange bird out there in the dark, it was a nest-mate. But which one? Lulu was in Lestallum with Gladio, and Iris was riding Roni. While they knew Ignis was here and might meet him, this was coming from the wrong direction for either of them. Which meant only-- 

"Figaro!" 

Nearby in the trees, the chocobo responded to his name with a triumphant cry. And then in less than a minute he was scrambling awkwardly up to the haven, claws raking the rock as he clambered up to the campsite. Ignis reached out to the bird and could feel him wheezing with exertion, could hear the clink of his loose harness, could smell the unforgettable smell of an overworked chocobo. But over all other observations was a scent that struck Ignis like a blow across the face from a friend's hand. Ignis touched the soft, hot feathers of the exhausted bird, and then his hands closed on a vest covered in studs, patches, and copious amounts of its owner's blood. For a second, he thought both their hearts had stopped. 

"Of all the--Prompto! Answer me, you bloody great idiot! ...Don't be dead." 

His voice shattered the constant darkness of the Nebulawood. He knew it would draw any number of curious daemons as close as they dared come to the haven's protective runes, but could not care. He'd found a pulse in Prompto's feverish skin, beating unsteadily under his jaw, and he said his second prayer in less than five minutes. Not dead. Not yet. As much as could be said for any of them. He moved on to other concerns. 

Prompto lay awkwardly over the saddle, unconscious but alive, clinging so fiercely to Figaro's bridle that Ignis could not get his fingers loose. How he had held on for so many miles was something only the gods could know. Ignis at last gave up and took Prompto off his mount, bridle and all, while Amarant groomed her nest-mate's crest and scolded him affectionately over his condition. Ignis was feeling very much the same. Prompto groaned as Ignis lifted him from the saddle, and Ignis took that for a good sign as he carried him into the tent, hoping all the while that Figaro's efforts had not come too late. 

A potion was the first order of things, as soon as Ignis made sure that all of Prompto's bones and innards were in the proper places. He cursed his lack of sight for the first time in many months, having to feel for the injuries, assessing the damage by touch. It would have been so much faster if he could see. Prompto did not stir as Ignis cut him out of his clothes, silently promising to mend them later. Slowly, he tallied up the injuries. 

A bad gash to his upper thigh had most likely been the initial injury. He'd had time to bind it up with a strip of checked fabric from his vest. Doing so had kept him from slowly bleeding to death, but it was infected now--almost all daemon-inflicted wounds went bad immediately. From the heat radiating from the torn flesh and the smell of the clotted blood, Ignis considered it the main source of his fever. Anyone else, on getting such a wound, would have scrambled to safety at once. Prompto, with a breathtaking disregard for his own life, had fought on. 

And had gotten a sword through his shoulder. (Ronin-type, Ignis thought, which explained the nature of the wounds.) That was probably the second blow. At that point, Prompto would have been slowed if not totally lame, with one good arm--and that not even his shooting one. Lucky to get away with his life, even if he had dropped everything and fled. But there were other cuts all over him: his chest, his biceps, his shoulders. None on his back, which he might have gotten if he'd had the good sense to retreat. None on the sides of his forearms, which he would have gotten by attempting to defend himself. Only the brutal injuries of a man who had been bound and determined to get himself killed. 

Prompto must have defeated it in the end, somehow. Or his chocobo, with far more sense than his rider, had bodily dragged him from the fray. Either way, through instinct or intelligence or sheer luck, Figaro had carried Prompto a staggering distance to the one safety he could conjure in his bird-brain: the woods where he had hatched. It was only by the mercy of the gods that Ignis was there. Without that coeurl clipping Amarant and forcing Ignis to remain at his camp longer than planned...

Ignis could not complete the thought. There was too much else to do to indulge in maudlin speculation. Instead he breathed a grateful prayer to the Six, pulled an assortment of curatives from his saddlebag, and set to work. 

 

Ignis slept late the next day, though of course, there was no sun to tell him so. Instead it was his phone, buzzing with one of the many alarms he'd set to mark the time, lest the interminable hours rob him of his reason. He kept careful track of his schedule, and relied on numerical time because the notions of morning and evening had lost all sense without a sun. It was how he knew it had been well past midnight by the time he finished with Prompto, and still later once he gave Figaro some greens and a much-deserved grooming, heaping him with praise that still fell far short of what the chocobo had earned. He'd settled both birds by the fire and then fallen asleep between them, too tired to crawl back into the tent. 

Ignis hurried in there now, not so confident in his care that he was not braced for the worst. The sound of Prompto's snores put him at ease immediately--so familiar and unchanged even after all that occurred. Ignis' fingers told him everything else he wanted to know: that Prompto's fever was so diminished as to be almost completely gone; that his pulse was strong and steady in his wrist; that the potion-knit wounds had not reopened in the night--though the time between harming and healing meant there would be scars to show for them. Without the long arm of Noct's magic, it would have been a nearer thing. Now, with some rest, some water, and a decent quantity of good food, Prompto would be back to rights in no time. 

Physically, at least. Ignis was not so sure about the rest. With a sigh for the limitations of his skills, Ignis went to build up the fire again, and see about breakfast. 

 

The Yojimbo's blade swung in a blinding arc towards his face, and Prompto Argentum woke up with a yell before it could land. There was no daemon, only a dim, warm darkness. He smelled woods, campfire, and coffee; he felt the weight of a blanket on his skin and saw the roof and poles of a tent above his head. For a few perfect, elusive seconds, the last year or so of his life was nothing but a bad dream. Ignis was making breakfast. Gladio was building up the campfire. Noct was--

_Gone._

Each day since Gralea shot into Prompto's heart with the stinging pain of a cactuar needle, and he rolled over onto his side, shoved his fist to his mouth, and tried to stifle his sob. 

At first, every morning had been like this. Every morning he woke up and the first thing he knew was that Noct was gone. He wished every time for something normal, something banal. That he was hungry or had to pee or had a crick in his back or he wanted to get off. But no, it was the pain of Noct's absence, every morning, and every time it was as pleasant and elegant a realization as getting an entire pitcher of ice-cold gigantoad entrails right to the face.

After about three months it weakened somewhat, though it never went away. Sometimes, just before waking, he would still forget, but never for long. He'd gotten used to his bunk in Hammerhead. He'd gotten used to the stink of gasoline and burnt coffee. Cor said he was doing well, adapting to their new reality. But Cindy wouldn't meet his eyes. She could see right through him, and Prompto knew it.

He wasn't getting used to it. He wasn't moving on to some more approachable stage of grief. Every day Noct's absence stung a little less because every day Prompto cared a little less about everything. About himself. About living. It was the only way to keep the loss of Noct from crushing his heart to dust, so he walled off everything around it. 

He'd thought about ending it himself; but it seemed an unnecessary hardship to inflict on those around him. And every time he looked at his gun he thought: _but what if Noct comes back tomorrow?_ It was a small hope. It kept him going. But it didn't keep him from being reckless. There were, after all, plenty of ways to die on Eos these days. So he pushed his luck, told himself he was in the hands of the Gods, and they could do with him what they wanted. 

This time, what they wanted was to keep him alive. Prompto scrubbed his face on his hands. Fair enough. Alive today. Maybe he'd die tomorrow. Maybe Noct would come back tomorrow. Who knew? 

_It's a great big world full of wonders_ , someone had said once, on the beginning of a journey with a very different Prompto Argentum. And the man who had said it had just walked into the tent with a cup of hot coffee. 

"Good morning," Ignis said. "And congratulations. You're alive. Barely. And now I'm inclined to murder you myself." 

Prompto groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. He had hoped it would be some random other hunter, or at least Gladio. Gladio had done enough stupid shit on his own that he had no call to lecture. He'd yell, but it would be mercifully brief. No such luck. 

"How did you find me?" 

Ignis could still slay with a glance, even one that did not land with the sighted precision he once had, and even through a blanket. Prompto fully knew that telling pause, that tsking sigh. "I didn't. You've your chocobo to thank for your life. And me, I suppose, and whatever Gods you know that are inclined to pity fools. Because you certainly--"

"Can I have that coffee before you tear me another asshole?" Prompto asked, from under the blanket. 

"No," Ignis retorted, nostrils flaring. "What the hell were you _doing_? Trying to get yourself killed--" 

" _Yes_ ," Prompto burst out, sitting up and whipping the blanket off his face. Ignis' shocked expression was strangely gratifying, and he barreled on. "Are you happy now? Totally trying to kill myself. You would think, in this day and age, that would be _fucking easier_!" He waved an arm at the tent flap, so annoyed that he forgot Ignis couldn't see him. "But not even my goddamn _bird's_ on my side." 

"The number of people on your side is so immense that I would be hard put to list them all in one breath." Ignis' knuckles went white on the coffee cup as he made a visible effort to retain his temper. "And you can't die before you pay me back for the eight potions and two antidotes I used on you last night," he added, in an accent so crisp it could give a man a dozen papercuts. "Those things aren't cheap anymore." 

"Fine," Prompto said, and flopped back down in the blankets. "Send me a bill." 

"Drink your coffee," Ignis said, and left it on the tent floor for him before going back out to take care of the chocobos. 

Prompto stared hard at the stitching along the bottom edge of the tent, letting it come in and out of focus as his eyes swam with tears. Everything hurt. Inside him, outside him, and especially in the aching, newly-pink scar across his thigh. He kneaded it with his fingers, thinking about Ignis' potions, his loyal chocobo, a king's magic. "Thanks," Prompto whispered, then curled up into a ball and cried himself back to sleep again. 

 

It was early afternoon when Prompto came out of the tent--thirteen hundred hours, Ignis corrected himself. He'd put on the spare clothes Ignis had left for him, and his eyes were dry. At least, Ignis assumed as much, from the rustle of fabric and the steady clarity of his breathing. 

"Thanks for the pants," Prompto said, confirming the observation. 

"I'm afraid your others will be out of service for a while," Ignis said, placing a pot squarely on the griddle over the campfire. "And while it means little to me if you want to go around starkers, it would be a pity for you to catch pneumonia at this point." 

"A pity, all right." Prompto eased down into a camp chair with an audible wince. 

"That leg will be sore a while," Ignis said, adding a handful of onions to the pot. "Best be gentle with it." 

"Yeah." 

Prompto was quiet as Ignis prepared dinner with a practiced hand, having doggedly rebuilt his skills from the ground up. He would touch the pot handle from time to time to be sure it was in place, and pause to smell his ingredients to confirm one spice from another, but that was all. Ignis could feel Prompto's eyes on him, and allowed himself a little bit more flair in his gestures, a little more of what Prompto--in better days--liked to call _the old razzle-dazzle_. There was something meditative and ritualistic in building a good soup, and he was glad for the work, for the task. The world might have upended itself, but onions fried in bacon drippings would always make a fine broth, whatever gods and men might get up to otherwise. 

"Are you..." Prompto shifted his weight in his chair. "Are you making yellow curry soup?" 

"I might be," Ignis said, coy. "You'll have to stay alive if you want to find out." 

"Ha. Fair enough." Prompto sat back in the chair, thoughtfully probing the tender place in his leg with one finger. 

"Quit poking it," Ignis said. 

"How did you--" 

"I know because I know you, now leave it alone." Ignis tested a sliver of carrot with his teeth. A little rubbery, but it would cook up well enough. It didn't pay to be too fussy about the quality of one's produce these days. 

"So, what happened to Amarant?" 

The carrot bits sizzled as Ignis added them to the pan, and in his darkened vision he could see the memory of King Noctis Lucis Caelum's face screwed up in disgust. "Run-in with a coeurl. Does it look bad?" 

The crimson chocobo made a soft sound as Prompto reached over to smooth her feathers. "Scrapes have healed up all right, but her eye's still shut." 

"I'll put more ointment on it. Though I suspect we're down to one eye between us."

"Well, then she's all set to rule in the kingdom of the blind." 

"And a good queen may she be," Ignis said, and poured a cup of water into the pot. Fragrant steam filled the air. "I'll have Iris sew her a fetching eyepatch." 

Prompto laughed, though it wasn't like his old one. "Hey, you know what they use for your callsign, out in Hammerhead? When they're keeping tabs on territories?" 

"I can't say I have the faintest inkling," Ignis said. 

Prompto snorted. "Deadeye." 

Ignis froze in the act of adding salt to the pot. " _What_?" 

"Like the behemoth, you know? Because he was out in the Nebulawood. And now you--" 

"I get the reasoning yes thank you Prompto," Ignis said, and let the salt fall from his hand. "Deadeye. Honestly. So rude." 

"It's meant as a compliment, actually." 

It was. Ignis couldn't help a faint swell of pride. It wasn't every day a man robbed of his full faculties was afforded the same awe and respect as a dread behemoth. "And what do they call you?" Ignis asked, lifting an eyebrow in Prompto's direction. "Besides a lot of trouble, I assume." 

Prompto was quiet a long, troubling moment. The curry was built and simmering before he answered. "Sorry I've been out of touch," he said, at last. 

Ignis settled back against Amarant's side and took a long drink of his coffee. "Out of touch is one way of putting it," he said. "How long, exactly, have you been endeavoring to get yourself killed?" 

"It's not really an active plan," Prompto answered, as though splitting this particular hair would make it acceptable to his friends. 

"But if some Ronin runs you through and you're alone miles from anyone, oh the bloody well, then?" 

"Yes," Prompto said, with disarming honesty. "And it was a Yojimbo." 

Ignis sighed. "Prompto. We've all struggled with losing Noct. And after what you've been through--" 

"How do you even have any idea what I've been through?" 

Prompto's very voice was estranged. It opened up a yawning gulf between them and Ignis realized, with a cold jolt of dread, that Prompto was right. "I..." he began, and was hard-put to come up with the rest. "You've... never said. What happened to you in Gralea." 

"I was never asked," Prompto answered, fairly enough, but with an edge that very well might turn out to be a dizzying precipice if Ignis tested it with too much weight. 

_Gently_ , he told himself. _Gently_. He took a careful swallow of his coffee. "Would you have told us if we had?" 

"No," Prompto said, and Ignis felt the rebuttal sink him like a stone. In his refusal, Prompto had confirmed everything that Ignis had been afraid of, and doubled it. 

It was both a gift and a terrible burden, to be able to think like your enemy, but as King's Strategist, it was one of Ignis' most vital skills. More than once Ignis had tried to unravel Ardyn's motives for all he had done. Especially for why he would take Prompto only to give him back, seemingly unharmed. It was all only to hurt Noct in the end, and so mere rough treatment would not serve. Physical pain would have slowed Prompto but he would rebound from it, hardship--even disfigurement--could become a mark of pride. He did not have the arrogance Ignis had before his injury, and to disable him would only serve as a proof of his loyalty, of his love. _Look what I have endured for my king, for my friend._ So not pain. Not such a simple pain, anyway. 

Ardyn was a master of dissent. He knew who to kill, who to maim, who to torment with a dull blade of guilt and failure. He had used all such things to their 'best' ends. 

But there were other ways to break someone, and Ardyn would use every tool at his disposal. Every shame, every humiliation, every violation. Of course Ignis had not asked. Why would he need to? Ardyn may as well have illustrated his conquest in full color along the walls of the Imperial capital for Noct to see. 

But he had not. That was how a mortal might play things. Ardyn's game was longer, the twist of his knife slower. He had not said anything of it to Noct in Gralea. He knew Prompto would not. All he had done was give Prompto back, and then take Noct away. And that was the pivot on which the anguish swung. On time. How he would gloat of it in front of Noct when they met again, when the long years of silent and secret shame would make ripping open the old wounds hurt even more. It would be the sweetest music to Ardyn's ears to have Noct turn to his friend--his lover--and say, _Why didn't you tell me?_

Ignis understood Ardyn's game. Ignis knew what had happened to Prompto. And he thought he might vomit. _My dear boy_ , Ignis thought, his heart aching. _How we have failed you_. 

"I guess I don't need to tell you," Prompto said dully into the silence, as Ignis contemplated horrors both past and intended. "It's not hard to figure out." 

"Not for me," Ignis said, in restrained tones. "Gladio infers nothing as a matter of course, and Noct--" 

"It was supposed to make him angry again," Prompto said, quietly. "Noct. He--Ardyn said so. He said Luna's death might have been too much for Noct, so he wanted to make him mad. So he took me for that. It was only to make Noct angry. To hurt him. That's what all of it was for. Everything Ardyn.... did. To me. He told me, when he was--" Prompto closed his mouth, his face, his hands. Even without seeing him, Ignis could sense the shutdown. 

"I can well surmise the horrors you experienced in his tender care," Ignis said, with a delicacy that only years of diplomatic training could provide. "And I have no doubt Noct would understand your reticence to tell him, if given time." 

"He'll never know," Prompto said, with the fierce certainty of a vow long made. "I won't let that bastard have that, I won't let him use that--use me--against Noct. I'll take it to my grave." 

"If that is what you wish, so will I," Ignis promised. "But. I beg you. Do not rush to get there. For Noct's sake... and for ours. For all of us who love you." Ignis heard Prompto's sharp intake of breath, but would not let him interrupt. If Ignis did not say it now, he was not certain he'd have another chance. "I know I'm being selfish. I know the pain you must feel. But I have had already had to inform Noct of his fiancé's death and of his father's. Please. Prompto. _Do not make me add your name to that account_. Do not make him ask, when he returns, why you aren't there waiting for him." He paused, and struggled to regain his composure. "...I could not bear it." 

Ignis' eyes burned as though his injury was fresh, and he slid his hand under his glasses to press his fingers to them. It was not enough to stop the tears, and they made hot lines down his jaw. There was a rustle of movement beside him and then Prompto was there at his side, his arms around Ignis' ribs tightly enough to make them ache, his face crammed hard against Ignis' shoulder. 

"You knew," Prompto said, in a ragged breath, "that the one thing I wouldn't be able to stand is making you cry." 

"It takes very little these days, I admit." Ignis wrapped his arms around Prompto and held him, his cheek resting on the soft crest of his hair. "Perhaps I'm growing sentimental in my old age." 

"You're what? Twenty five?" 

"Twenty-three." Ignis waved a hand dismissively. "As the old saying goes: It's not the years--" 

"--It's the mileage," Prompto finished, and nestled his head into the curve of Ignis' neck. "I can't promise I'll do much better," he admitted. "I still..." He trailed off, and instead reached up to touch the tiny skull charm on Ignis' necklace. "I'll try," he said. 

"You'd best do more than try," Ignis said, with some of his old whipcrack sternness. "I'd suggest you start by not attempting to eliminate a Yojimbo entirely on your own." 

Prompto could not keep a note of pride out of his voice. "Attempting, nothing. I took him out." 

Ignis raised both his eyebrows. "Did you really?" 

"Yeah. Both barrels to the head. Even with my arm run through. Went out like a cantaloupe stuffed fulla fireworks." 

"Oh, good _show_ ," Ignis said, and hugged him fiercely. "Now don't ever fucking do it again." 

Prompto took a slow breath, and as he let it out Ignis felt the tension fade from his shoulders as he sank into Ignis' arms, like a child finding himself safe at home after a long nightmare. "Yes, sir." 

~o~


End file.
